


Origins of a Habit

by vtn



Category: Fake News
Genre: 5 Things, BDSM, M/M, Total Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-23
Updated: 2006-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon has this habit of saying things that offend Stephen and then getting tortured by him.  He examines where this habit originated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origins of a Habit

**Author's Note:**

> At the request of Helen (canistakahari): "five times jon accidentally upset character!stephen and had to be "punished" (the bdsm edition)". 
> 
> It's meant to be in character (i.e., fake Stephen and fake Jon), it's meant to be over the top, and yeah, Easton fucking sucks.
> 
> Famous for being the fic that I wrote over Thanksgiving break including sometimes when my grandmother was in the room which made me feel a liiiiiittle awkward.

Every habit starts somewhere.

Lying awake with only the sound of the voices in his head to keep him company, Jon can remember the first time he couldn't fall asleep, crouched under his blanket with a flashlight and an issue of DC Comics.

He also remembers the first time he embarrassed himself in front of a girl, which was fourth grade when he mispronounced Roosevelt in front of Francine Harris. Now he can't count the number of times he's said something stupid around Sam, unable to do a thing but laugh it off as she teased him mercilessly in return.

There's one particular habit of his that he's trying to trace back. He closes his eyes and there's a map in his brain, the sort of map he tends to see on the green screen behind him. He closes his eyes and he reaches for the first place marker.

**1\. Washington, DC**

As far as Jon can tell, it started in a cramped bus when they were in the Capital, sightseeing. Rob, he recalls, was being abused by an elderly woman whose seat he had allegedly stolen.

"Please, I'm sorry, okay?" Rob whined, accompanied by the sound of the woman's cane smacking against his kneecaps. "I'll move, I'll move, I swear, just—stop— _hey_!"

Jon looked out the greasy bus window, pressing his fingers to the cool glass.

"Just look at all of them," Stephen said from next to him, leaning in and pressing his face close to Jon's. "Tourists. Roaming the city like mindless little ants, taking photographs like they've never seen the side of a building before."

"But Stephen—"

"No, no, Jon," Stephen continued, waving a hand to cut him off. "There's not a single one of them with enough brain cells to realize that they see the sides of buildings every day in their home towns. Where they belong."

"But Stephen," Jon started again, frustrated, "We're tourists too." Jon had hardly said it when he knew he had made a mistake. Stephen opened his mouth, looking appalled.

"I can't believe you would suggest that. We're not like them, Jon. We're different. At least, that's what I thought. And now here you are, buying into the suggestion that we too are just as simple as the common man!" Stephen turned, gesturing back at Jon. "Listen to him, Rob! Just listen to him!"

Rob, of course, was too busy sulking and looking, paranoid, over his shoulders in case there were any more senior citizens nearby with a taste for revenge. Stephen turned back to Jon, something sparking in his eyes.

"Learned your lesson, Stewart?" Stephen's voice had taken on a tone that made the little hairs on the back of Jon's neck rise. What did you call those. Hackles. Jon laughed nervously.

"Sure, Stephen." Jon sank back into his seat, resolving that he wasn't going to speak for the rest of the bus trip until Stephen wasn't in earshot.

"Jon," said Stephen, drumming his fingers on the window's rubber lining. "I think we need to talk. Eight-thirty." And what the hell did that mean, Jon wondered. Jon felt the edge of something hard against his hand and, wordlessly, closed his fingers around it.

Later that night, he would turn the plastic card key over and over, the 204 identical to the numbers printed on the door in front of him burning behind his eyes.

"Jon!" came a call from inside. "Jon, are you still waiting out there? I don't care if you sleep out there, you know. I think it would be easier for you, Jon, if you just came in. It's your old pal Stephen after all. Nothing to be afraid of," Stephen singsonged.

Naturally, Jon was terrified. His legs felt so liquid, he wouldn't be surprised if they learned to conduct electricity. He slipped the card key into the door, listened to it zip, watched the little light turn green. Briefly marveled at the wonders of modern technology, letting a fleeting thought occupy his mind that it might be the last time.

Stephen was sitting on the bed, crosslegged. As Jon entered the room, Stephen hopped off the side of the bed and rushed to shut the door.

Jon pressed as many parts of his body as he could to the wall behind him. That 'fight or flight' instinct in him was speaking up now, sending warning signals left and right as Stephen advanced.

"On the floor," Stephen barked, and Jon dropped to his knees, wrapping his hands around his head.

"Don't hurt me, please, I didn't mean it, I swear, I—" _Smack_. Stephen's hand connected with Jon's ass, leaving Jon first numb and then smarting with pain. Jon squinted tears out of the corners of his eyes, whining through his teeth. "You asked me in here to _spank_ me?"

Another spank. "Don't talk."

Jon gulped back tears again, only to be met by another hard slap on the ass.

"And, that's right," Stephen added. "I did. Don't say things you shouldn't."

"I—" _Smack_.

"And fine, go ahead, tell Rob, tell Ed—hell, tell Samantha. Tell your mother! I'm sure they'd all love to see those pictures from that party we went to, wouldn't they?"

"Stephen," Jon panted. He pulled his knees under him, swallowed, and looked Stephen in the eye. "This is ridiculous. Spanking? Blackmail? I can't believe you'd—"

Stephen cut Jon off by slapping him in the face.

**2\. Baltimore, MD**

Jon was still shaken by the events of that night when the team headed to Baltimore to film a segment about a new exhibit at the Baltimore Aquarium. It was a story just ridiculous enough to garner attention on the Show, and they'd given it to Sam, who had a good amount of fun mocking the silly names and bizarre situations involved.

Then it was a warm night and they'd had seafood for dinner, sitting in chairs on a balcony overlooking the harbor.

Slowly, over a plate of shrimp and a cup of Old Bay, Jon relaxed. There were reasons, he figured, that Stephen might act that way. Cabin fever. (Well, tour bus fever anyway.) Maybe Stephen had had something to drink. Maybe someone had been rude to Stephen in DC and he'd taken it out on Jon. Maybe it was a joke, a prank, a dare.

It wouldn't happen again.

The five of them made the trek down to the concrete of the harbor, laughing and passing around a beer. Jon isn't sure, though, whether he invented the detail that they were drinking in order to rationalize what happened then.

"Check it out," Jon said, laughing, "It's the World Trade Center." It wasn't a joke. He hadn't meant it as a joke. It was just he was surprised because it was the World Trade Center.

And okay, sure, maybe it was kind of funny. Sam and Ed thought it was pretty funny too. (Rob was being attacked by a pigeon and wasn't paying attention.)

"What?" said Stephen, stoic.

"It's the—" Jon eyed Stephen carefully, warning signs going up again. No. It probably wasn't even real, that thing that had happened. He'd probably dreamt it. Hallucinated it. He took a deep breath and continued. "I was just saying it's the World Trade Center, that's all."

Stephen raised an eyebrow mistrustfully.

"Are you supporting the terrorists, Jon?"

Carefully woven yet altogether fragile net of rationalizations, meet cannonball. But maybe there was still a chance—

"Stephen, what does me saying it's the World Trade Center have to do with—"

"Jon," said Stephen, hands on his hips, "You never know who could hear you in this day and age."

"Stephen, that doesn't even make sense! I—"

Stephen waved his hand dismissively, clicking his tongue at Jon.

"I think we talked about this," he said, lowering his voice. "My room. Tonight. But only if you _want_ to."

Which was a ridiculous notion in and of itself, so why was Jon standing outside Stephen's hotel room door an hour later, shivering in the chill of the air conditioning?

The door swung open, and Stephen peered around it.

"Jon Stewart. Fancy meeting you here."

Jon said the only thing he really could say.

"What are you doing with those scissors and all that rope, Stephen?"

"You ever hear that thing about actions, Jon? Where they speak louder than words?" Stephen shifted the scissors and rope into one hand and used the other to drag Jon into the room, scraping Jon's knees uncomfortably against the rug. Jon looked up, bewildered, for a moment, then Stephen knotted the rope around Jon's wrists and stepped over to fix the other end to one of the bedposts.

What the hell kind of hotel beds had bedposts? It was like the whole universe was conspiring to make Jon—

To make Jon—

Swish. Stephen opened and closed the scissors. He opened and closed them again, this time over the cuff of Jon's pants.

"You wouldn't," Jon squeaked.

"You know, I just might." Stephen smiled and slit Jon's pants all the way up one leg, letting his hand rest on Jon's bare thigh. Jon shuddered, mind spinning with the implications. "I just might," Stephen repeated, softly and distractedly, as he turned the scissors and started cutting horizontally. Holding his breath and making a strangled noise in his throat, Jon watched in horror as the blades swished toward his groin.

And then continued, slitting down the other leg of the pants, not even brushing his underwear. Jon had to cope with the realization that not only had Stephen done this before, he had done it enough times to be good at it.

Then he had something new to cope with, which was the fact that Stephen was filleting his boxers. And that his boxers were now in shreds around his ankles.

Oh, and the part where he was hard. Not just lazily half-hard, no. Painfully aroused hard. That was going to take more than a few seconds to deal with.

Stephen knotted the rope around Jon's ankles and stood up, admiring his handiwork.

"Pathetic," he said with a grin. Eying Jon carefully, he slipped a hand down his pants. Jon tried not to concentrate on the expression on Stephen's face. He also decided definitely not to concentrate on the noises Stephen was making, because if he thought about those tiny, breathy moans coming from the back of Stephen's throat or the way Stephen was _watching_ him, he might—no. Instead he concentrated on the only thing he could think to concentrate on, which was the way he could see the lines on Stephen's knuckles through his pants. Those knuckles would haunt him, he knew it.

Stephen groaned loudly, then, the kind of groan that should only appear in X-rated films and otherwise probably violated at least four Constitutional amendments.

As Stephen undid Jon's bonds, leaving him hard and needy and scared and utterly unsatisfied, the only thing he could think of, bizarrely, was the fact that not one but two pairs of pants were ruined in that hotel room that night. And those pants were expensive, damn it.

**3\. Easton, PA**

Jon had finally come to a conclusion that was more frightening than not. Actually, it was two conclusions, but they were intricately tied to each other.

One: There was about a fifty percent chance Stephen was going to be angered by any given thing Jon might say. Jon had learned this after multiple repeats of Baltimore's events, each getting more and more ritualized and sexualized.

Two: Jon was enjoying this at least a small fraction of the amount Stephen was.

Jon reached a third conclusion in Easton, on the way back to the studio. It's hard for him now to place the marker at one particular spot on the map. He figures he might as well be all-inclusive, so he follows back the trail to the beginning.

In the beginning, there was traffic. And then God said "Let there be more traffic," and there was, and verily, it was unpleasant.

One of the speakers in their rental car had broken. Sam had a stomach bug and there was now a bulging, rancid newspaper bag tied off in the trunk, about to be joined by another. Ed was playing a version of Solitaire that apparently involved a lot of uncouth language.

Jon gently lowered his foot onto the gas pedal. You had to do it almost reverently, he figured, or you'd have an unwelcome introduction to the car ahead of you. You might even learn their license plate number on account of it being permanently branded into your forehead. But even gently was enough to jostle Ed's cards.

"Damn it, Rob!" Ed barked, banging his fist down on the armrest. Jon angled his rearview mirror to see Rob look up from a tour guide.

"What'd I do?"

"Nothing, you're just easy to blame," Sam groaned, looking greenish.

"Damn you all!" Rob shook his fist. "Oh, hey, I actually found a bar around here."

"Oh?" everyone chorused, perking up a little.

"But it's a gay bar."

"Oh." Everyone looked back down at whatever it was they were doing.

Jon turned to Stephen, running his tongue along his bottom teeth, tasting the words he was about to say.

"Well, that should be all right. Because you're gay, and all," he said. Stephen looked thoughtful for a moment, focusing on some spot far away from the car. Then he turned back to Jon, eyes dark and _different_.

"I am not gay," he said, softly but meaningfully. "I am _not_ gay. And Jon, you will never say that again."

"But you sleep with men," Jon insisted, practically feeling the heel of Stephen's hand against his jaw already.

"I am _not_ gay," Stephen hissed, gripping Jon's wrist, digging in sharp fingernails. "I am _not_ gay."  
They didn't make it to New York City. Instead they gave up and stayed in the shittiest Best Western hotel Jon had ever seen or ever wanted to see in the rest of his life. The lobby was rank and shabby, the staff practically nonexistent, and the room itself was cramped and reeked of smoke. It was also a nonsmoking room.

This wasn't even a question of Jon coming to visit Stephen in his room. There had only been three rooms vacant in the hotel (although, thinking back now, Jon can't remember ever having seen any of the other guests) and they'd split up accordingly. Jon was almost thankful that Sam was too sick to brag about getting her own room.

But Jon was in Stephen's room, and Stephen was undressing him, yanking his clothes off unceremoniously as Jon watched the ceiling.

Jon couldn't help but ponder the fact that he'd never actually seen Stephen with all of his clothes off. It was kind of unfair, in a way, wasn't it? But maybe in Stephen's convoluted worldview, that was the part that made him Not Gay.

"On the bed," Stephen commanded. "Hands and knees." Jon clenched his teeth and curled into himself on the bed, deciding to wrap his hands around his bare legs, awaiting, trembling. The pink-flowered comforter brushed uncomfortably against his already-hard cock. And Jon waited.

There was the sound of Stephen unzipping his bag, and there was the sound of Stephen making noncommittal noises while presumably searching in the bag for something. Then there was Stephen bracing himself against Jon's side with a cold hand, and then there was another cold hand, fingers cold and slick and wet, mechanically spreading Jon's legs apart.

One of those fingers pried at Jon's entrance. Jon's fingers tightened their grasp on his arms. He was sure he had to be leaving white marks by now.

"No, no, please, you can't be," Jon said through chattering teeth. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Stephen slipped his finger inside Jon, pushing further when Jon clenched his muscles.

"This will be easier if you relax, Jon," Stephen admonished, which only served to make Jon tense more. Stephen added a second finger, spreading Jon further and pushing deeper inside him. Jon felt his arms buckle under him, and he collapsed even further onto himself. "And don't come until I say you can," Stephen added, with a thrust of his hand that hit some nerve inside Jon that made it extremely difficult to follow Stephen's instructions.

Yet somehow Jon managed, some underlying fear driving him. He managed even as he lost control of just about every muscle in his body. He managed until Stephen finally gave him the command and he came, shuddering and weeping and clinging to the stinking comforter.

Jon buried his face in the pillow and couldn't look at Stephen. He still had to say it, though. It wouldn't leave him alone otherwise.

"Stephen, doesn't this prove me right?" Jon said, surprised at the clarity of his own voice. "Doesn't this prove that you—"

"Jon, I think there are some things you need to own up to, too," Stephen said, opening the bathroom door and slinging a towel over his shoulder. "But you know what? Let's not talk about any of them. Why don't you open up the outside pocket of my suitcase and see how you like what I bought you in Philadelphia?" Closing the door behind him, Stephen stepped into the bathroom. "And _use_ it," Stephen's voice came through the door, "Because you deserve it for taking that liberty, Jon!"

Jon hesitantly got up from the bed and walked over to the wall, hurting in places he hadn't even known he had previously. Numb from the cold, his fingers fumbled to open the outside pocket of Stephen's suitcase. He felt the object inside and he began to understand.

It was an unsettlingly pleasant feeling. Jon curled up on the bed again, clutching his 'present' in one hand.

**4\. New York, NY**

"Next time, Jon," Stephen said, giving his characteristic eyebrow quirk to the camera, "Remember me before you say anything about Scientology."

"That's twelve," said Sam, adding a mark to her tally. "And that's a wrap."

Jon slumped down in his chair, fidgeting with his tie. His fingers shaking, it took him about five tries to undo the Windsor knot; five tries and an unusual amount of concentration. He rubbed at his sore neck.

"Okay. I really want to know. What is this all about?" Sam asked, folding her arms. Stephen gave a 'go on' gesture at Jon and Jon fumbled around in his pocket until he felt the folded-up collar under his fingers. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and held it in his hand, looking up inquisitively at Stephen.

"Put it _on_ , Jon," Stephen coaxed, the disparity in his eyebrows' heights even clearer than before. Jon held the collar in his fingers, let the chain drop to the floor, and then reached up to fasten the snap at the back of his neck.

"Wow, boys," Sam said, laughing nervously, "I guess I'll just leave you at that, won't I?" She backed toward the door, fingering the handle.

"Come over here, Jon," said Stephen, and Jon did, staring at the floor. He heard the tinkling of the chain as Stephen grasped the other end and yanked on it, bringing Jon, gasping, to the floor. "Do you want to help me count to twelve?"

"Yes," Jon said softly, still looking at the floor. Stephen yanked on the chain hard, and Jon's hands flew to his neck, wincing as his fingers caught in the chain.

"Hey, you two want to join me at lunch in half an hour? I'm getting Chinese," Sam said, punctuating it with a nervous laugh.

"Do we?" Jon asked, finally looking up at Stephen.

"Yes. And Jon will be having the chicken lo mein," said Stephen, nodding, his eyebrows finally at rest.

"Jon, you're just going to take this from him?" said Sam, looking a little incredulous.

"Yes he is," Stephen intercepted smoothly. "And he's going to enjoy it."

"Well, if you say so…" Sam turned the doorknob the rest of the way and pushed open the door, looking over her shoulder before exiting. "Let me know if you need me to count times Jon said something that accidentally upset you again!"

Stephen stepped over and closed the door with a light push before jerking Jon's chain again, forcing him to look down at the floor.

"Please," Jon gasped.

"One," said Stephen, slapping Jon's cheek and leaving the right side of his face tingling and burning alternately. Then Stephen yanked on the chain harder until Jon had to lie down on the floor, his knees banging against the hard wood of the stage as he went down. Stephen stepped Jon and planted a foot firmly in the small of his back. He pressed down.

"Two."

**5.**

Every habit starts somewhere.

And that's what it is, Jon has to admit to himself, even if he won't say it out loud. A habit. A repeated, ritualized behavior. Jon has a habit of making Stephen angry so that Stephen will torture him.

But maybe it didn't start in DC. Maybe it was the very first time they met and Stephen ridiculed Jon for 'acting like he knew comedy'. Maybe it was even before then. Maybe the reason Jon has been awkward all his life is just because he takes a masochistic pleasure in being made to feel bad for it.

No, he tells himself, stop. This is just too weird.

Before he is forced to splatter the guts of his psyche against a wall and try to identify the remains, the door opens. Jon pulls the covers up to his ears, startled.

"Hello Jon," says Stephen. In the low light spilling in around the edges of the door, Jon can see that Stephen's holding a piece of cloth in his hand. "Jon, there are two great tragedies in life. One is not getting what you want. The other is getting it."

"Wasn't it Mark Twain who said that?" Jon squints, trying to make out Stephen's expression. Stephen's face reveals nothing, except that when their eyes meet it sends a bolt straight to Jon's groin. So now apparently he's developed a Pavlovian reaction. Wonderful.

"Oscar Wilde, Jon." Stephen kneels on the bed, puts his hands on Jon's shoulders. "Oscar Wilde."

Stephen moves back to pull down the comforter, leaving Jon naked and cold. Stephen just _had_ to put the air conditioning on full blast, didn't he.

"Good, good." Gently running his fingers through Jon's hair, Stephen smiles. "Sit up, Jon." Jon sits up. Stephen starts balling the fabric in his hands and, before Jon's sleep-deprived mind can grasp what's going on, Stephen's tying the fabric behind Jon's head and the big wad of fabric is in his throat. Jon chokes.

"Funny," Stephen continues. "I was letting you get away with saying the most outrageous things, and all this time all I had to do was shut you up."

Leaning in and straddling Jon's hips, Stephen starts to kiss along Jon's neck and into the dip of his shoulder. He continues trailing downward, kissing and licking, teasing with tongue and teeth at Jon's nipples, until he pauses at Jon's solar plexus.

"Jon," he says from deep in his throat, "I'm going to give you what you want."

Jon doesn't know what he wants. If Stephen tells him he wants something, he'll want it.

"I'm going to fuck you."

Jon's mouth feels dry, despite the fact that he knows his saliva is sliding along the balled-up fabric and dripping down his throat. Stephen's right. That _is_ what Jon wants.

"I'm going to fuck you," Stephen says again and accompanies it by wrapping his hand around Jon's cock, a gesture that makes Jon squeak in his throat. The gag catches the sound before it can escape Jon's lips, though.

"I'm going to fuck you and I'm going to be gentle, Jon. I'm going to be slow. I'm going to tease you and torture you because you're going to want it so badly but I'm going to hold you when it's done, Jon. I'm going to let you come whenever you want."

There's a pause then which is filled by Stephen's hand running down the length of Jon's cock. Jon shivers, presses closer to Stephen's body.

"But Jon?" Jon twitches just slightly when Stephen _squeezes_ , but even the tiny twitch is enough to shift the gag and make him choke all over again.

"Jon, you're not going to say a single word."

And Jon can only nod.


End file.
